What Wasn't And What Should Have Been
by NurseLintu
Summary: What Castiel's return SHOULD have been like. SLASH warning. Don't like, don't read!
1. Chapter 1

Ever since Castiel had waded in to that lake, Dean had been acting strangely. It started with the silence, and the staring in to oblivion, but it steadily progressed. He seemed to be slipping in to a kind of stupor. He had even stopped eating and boozing as much. Dean Winchester. Not cramming half a cheese burger in to his mouth at one time, and Dean Winchester going days at a time with no alcohol consumption. It didn't take a genius to work out something was wrong. Sam knew it had something to do with Castiel's disappearance, but he wasn't aware of the depth of the problem. He had seen Dean gazing up at the night sky, maybe wishing or waiting for Castiel to drop out of it, and he had heard Dean shouting and even praying for his return. Sam was sure he had even overheard his brother sobbing the angel's name. Surely not? No one could possibly have known the extent to which losing his Angel had affected Dean.

Watching raindrops splattering on the window of the dingy motel room, picking a drop and following its journey from single drop at the top of the window, rolling into and adjoining itself to other, larger droplets until they formed mini rivers to the bottom of the window. Dean vaguely noted this wasn't his traditional way of celebrating the latest triumph over the foe. He scarcely had the will to settle himself to bed, leave alone go out and party.

Sam had managed to get one beer down him, but Dean had excused himself on the grounds of having a migraine and had returned to the crummy room. Dean's eyes took one last flick around the room – a habit long years of hunting had instilled in him – before turning off the bedside lamp. He didn't fail to notice the peeling, bubbling green and white wallpaper, the heavily lacquered cheap wooden doors and railings, and the dark damp patches on the front wall. He stifled throaty coughs as his lungs got used to the fausty aroma in the room.

As with every night, as his eyes fluttered shut, Dean allowed himself to imagine Castiel standing by the door, a twinkle in his eyes, his lips almost turned upwards in to a smile

That night again brought intense dreams to Dean. They had been coming to him since about three weeks after Castiel had gone. The dreams had started off obscure, and Dean had found himself waking with a start. However, as time bore on, the dreams had started to become more vivid, and the random shapes and colors and images which had been flashing up in Dean's head started to melt together. To begin with, he had been aware of a striking blue color and a sense of familiarity, then black, white, peach, dark blue and an off cream-beige color. He would be awoken by the sound of a voice shouting.

Dean grew crankier as the dreams got worse rather than eased, and he knew he was taking it out on his brother. He didn't mean to. He loved Sammy more than anyone or anything in the world.

"Dean!" Dean awoke, his chest tight and burning, and he gasped for breath.

Sam jumped and looked at his brother accusingly. "Dude," He fetched some toilet tissue and mopped up the spilt coffee.

Dean sat up slowly, blinking his eyes against the shocking light flooding in through the windows. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was past eleven in the morning.

"Thought you'd never wake up," Sam begrudgingly handed the full cup to his older brother, then swirled the remains of his own cup. "Sleeping like an Angel." He remarked quietly, not sure he intended Dean to hear. His sense of humor appeared to have up and left a while ago. Around the same time as he realized Castiel was gone for good. Even Sam's mention of the word 'Angel' sent daggers in to Dean's heart. First his Mother, then his Father, Ellen and Jo, now his Angel.

Sam watched as Dean sipped and then set down his coffee, then headed to the en suite. He remained in there for about ten minutes, then re emerged, clean and shaven, and he picked up his coffee. Sam winced as Dean took a mouthful of undoubtedly cold coffee, pause, pull a face, then proceed to neck the rest of it. Sam shook his head, and turned back to his Google search on 'unexplained phenomenon in the US' A broad criteria, he knew, but everything has to start somewhere.

Dean slumped down on to his bed again and closed his eyes. He conjured up a mental image, which was quickly shattered by the sound of his brother's voice.

"You doing okay, dude?" Sam scolded himself for using the same word twice. Casual enquiries didn't hold the same innocence with repetition.

"Just tired." Dean laid his arm over his eyes and sighed gently.


	2. Chapter 2

Red was fast becoming a pivotal color in his dreams. Crimson red, and a sticky, trickling sensation. A color all too familiar to Dean. He felt like he was walking through a vast, unfamiliar wilderness, but he could see no ground, no surroundings to give a clue as to where he was. Although he was walking, Dean couldn't feel anything beneath his feet. All he knew was that he was searching. There was no sound. Not footfalls, not heavy breathing, not even a breeze.

Somehow, he knew where he was going. In the total absence of anything, he just knew he was going the right way. Dean Winchester, weathered hunter, player, breaker of many – was following his heart. His heart, which suddenly had substance; he was aware of it beating – ka thump, ka thump, thhrump – every few beats it would flutter in anticipation. The thumping got louder and louder, until it overcame everything. A searing pain took precendence, and "Dean!" Such a familiar voice. Associated notmally with comfort and happiness, yet pain and loss, yet still Dean felt a warm, fuzzy feeling in his tummy, a notion he would share with no one. A familiar face, a perfect face, brilliant blue eyes, soft, voluptuous lips, framed by delicate and intricate lines. Velvety near black hair, matted together with a sticky fluid. The face was frozen in a silent cry. The perfect face, splattered in blood, streaked in blood, ruined by blood.

The face of a Fallen, broken Angel. The face of Dean's Angel.

Dean didn't hear himself shouting Cas' name as he came to. He barely made it to the en suite, clattering and crashing his way to the toilet to retch violently. Nothing came up, and Dean came to realize that he had nothing to come up. His appetite had dwindled away to nothing. Hours spent thinking about everything and nothing at the same time had all but addled Dean's once, limited track given, but once sharp mind.

He thought about Castiel's blood drenched face as he and Sam sat down to a silent lunch.

Sam watched his older brother pick away steadily, but surely, at his fries. Sam steadied his own pace, and thought about striking up conversation, but thought better of it for fear of distracting Dean away from his food. Sam chewed slowly on a mouthful of burger, studying Dean's pale, weary face. He had gather that Dean wasn't sleeping well, despite the fact he was sleeping a _lot_, and drifting off all hours of the day.

Dean finished his burger, let out an absent minded belch, then flushed red as he spotted an attractive waitress giving him a disapproving glare. He flashed a large Dean Winchester Charm trademark smile and pardoned himself.

Sam smiled to himself, a little tickle in his tummy hoping silently that his brother was maybe returning to his normal annoying, womanizing self.

Dean blew out his breath sharply and clamped a trembling hand to his stomach. "Ugh,"

Sam braced himself to jump out of the firing line of vomit. "Dean?"

Dean raised his free hand, and rasped, "Indigestion."

Sam's body relaxed, and he let his breath go. "Thought you were gonna hurl," Sam chuckled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Don't." Dean's husky voice made Sam jump. Dean wasn't looking at his brother, instead his was pushing the last few fries around on his plate with his fork. An uncomfortable silence passed, then Dean got up, leaving a note to pay for the food, and he left the diner.

Sam had decided to disappear out away from the tension between him and his brother. He would just waste time at a cheap bar, perhaps throw a few darts, buy a pint of the cheapest and sip at it slowly. Horrible, bitter, gritty stuff with an after taste of soil. Sam had to swallow twice and clear his throat after every sip. He watched the other people go about their business, but didn't really take anything in. He was deep in thought. It was clear to him that his brothers problem stemmed from the disappearance – death perhaps – of his Angel friend Castiel. Sam sure knew Castiel and Dean had been fond of one another. In fact Sam had sometimes thought the Angel had been a little too fond of his brother. Something in the way he looked at Dean, and Dean looked back at him, and Sam could swear they were communicating telepathically. He sipped, grimaced, then sighed as his mind averted back to his late girlfriend Jess. That's the last time he remembered seeing that look in someone's eyes. That was the last time anyone had looked at him in that way. He choked back several mouthfuls of his vile pint and bit back the tears in his eyes.

A few miles away, sat on the edge of his hard, musty bed, Sam's older brother was allowing the tears to silently fall. He raised a hand to wipe away the wet streaks leaving dirty trails down his face. The room was lit only by the dim moonlight let in through the window. Dean glanced at the bare floorboards, which were covered her and there by ragged worn rugs that looked like they had been dragged straight out of the '80's, with a faded pattern in orange, green and brown. Years, drunken careless louts, and lowly paid, bitter housekeeping had not been kind to the room or its somewhat dated décor.

As Dean was studying the room, consciously attempting to distract himself, he found himself thinking, _hoping_, that Castiel would turn up in the room, the gust of air from his wings disturbing the drapes that divided the living/sleeping area from the poor excuse for a kitchen – which consisted of a small sink and draining board, a table top refrigerator that looked like it had been sat undisturbed for the thirty or so years the motel had been standing for, and an area of worktop no more than a foot squared – and his eyes would already be on Dean's, and he would step towards Dean, his strangely perfect face void of much of any emotion, and he'd begin rambling on about the latest baddie or mission in that deep, brusque voice, a voice that made hairs rise on the back of Dean's neck, and Castiel's eyes would not leave Dean's, not falter, not even for a second as he spoke, perfect baby blues boring a hole in to Dean's soul, holding Dean totally captive to him.

Dean closed his eyes and remembered all the times the unwitting Angel had stood barely a foot from him, fixing him with that steely gaze, and after all those times correcting him _"Cas, we've talked about this... Personal space." _And his Angel had apologized and stepped away, and now all Dean wanted was Castiel back in that space. Dean would wrap his arms around his Angel, and he wouldn't let go.


	3. Chapter 3

Time passed Dean by with no real meaning. He was managing to eat and dirnk more, and even ganking monsters and Leviathan had begun to feel almost fun. His mind, however, was still elsewhere. His dreams had been getting more vivid. He had been dreaming about Castiel. Sometimes Castiel was crying out Dean's name, and Dean would dream of running towards the sound of his voice, trying but never succeeding in finding him. Sometimes Castiel was being maimed and tortured by faceless creatures, and Dean was being restrained, unable to get to his friend, unable to save him. Other times, he would dream of the two of them sat by a lake, fishing lines cast in to the water, holding light conversation or an equally comfortable silence. Other times... Dean had often had dreams about Castiel. Ones he didn't understand, and despite the fact he remembered them, he never spoke of them. Never so much as hinted them around anyone, not even to himself. If he admitted it to himself, he'd have to deal with it. Like always, Dean would push them to the back of his mind and pretend they didn't exist.

Sam and Bobby had buried themselves in research, trying to figure out anything at all about the dreaded Leviathan. Of course, nothing too helpful was being turned out.

Bobby cursed quietly and pushed the book aside. "Not a damn thing,"

Sam sighed and ran a clammy hand through his hair. He watched Bobby's eyes scan the room in irritation, and his deep brow furrow. "Where's Dean?"

Sam shrugged, standing up from his chair.

"What's been up his ass lately?" It hadn't gone unnoticed that if Dean wasn't on a hunt or filling his arteries with heavily processed fat in a fast food restaurant, he was in the bedroom. He rarely showed his face.

Bobby sighed, frustrated as he was greeted by a don't-ask-me face from Sam in reply to his question, and he waited whilst Sam vanished in to the bathroom, emerge again, fetch more beer from the kitchen and finally return to his seat with a grunt. Sam huffed and scratched his cheek as his eyes locked with Bobby's.


	4. Chapter 4

Yet again, an angry storm was raging outside, and the rain drops battered loud rhythms on the weak windows of Bobby's house. The wind made the house creak and groan, and Dean could swear he felt the house moving, leaning away from the wind. He began to feel sea sick.

As he reached the bathroom, Dean steadied himself on the sink, realizing the urge to reject his food had passed. He rinsed his face with cool water, and pondered a shower. There was a nagging ache in Dean's left hip, which was running up in to the small of his back. Apparently being thrown across the room by an angry spirit didn't get any easier. Instinctively, Dean's hand ran across the painful area, whilst he looked at the sallow reflection staring back at him. He closed his eyes to shut out the stranger in the mirror. A cold, subtle gust of wind sent a chill up Dean's spine and made goose pimples rise across his body. Dean was distantly aware of a fluttering sound, but only opened his eyes and stiffened ready to attack at the sound of the shower curtain being knocked aside, and the faintest sound of a shoe scuffing on the old linoleum. The mirror reflected Dean's drawn face, and a scraggly nondescript black shadow behind him. The closest thing to hand was a bottle of mouthwash, maybe enough punch in that to burn eyeballs and give Dean a chance of escape. His knuckles turned white with the grip on the bottle, his other hand twisting the top loose. He turned.

A dark haired man stood behind Dean, blood trickling down his face from his hairline. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and Dean noticed he was holding himself up by leaning against the wall at the end of the bath. His sapphire eyes were circled with dark skin, and fixed desperately on Dean. The man licked his dry lips and rubbed his supporting arm gingerly with his free hand. Dean's eyes traced the other man's battered body, settling on the tattered, black Wings drooping behind him. Dean was transfixed by them. They were vast and magnificent, even in this weakened, damaged state. They were incredible beyond anything he had ever seen, and Dean felt his jaw loosen and drop slightly as he reached out to them, dropping the open bottle of mouthwash on the floor, the contents pouring across the tattered rug acting as a pedestal by the toilet, he couldn't avert his eyes, even if he wanted to. Dean eased himself backwards, feeling the sink digging in to his aching lower back, he grasped the cold porcelain of the sink in both hands to support himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing to take in an empty room when he opened them again. He had to be dreaming. He _had_ to be. He had no recollection of falling asleep, but these days Dean could barely distinguish real life from his nightmares anyway. _Get a grip, Dean. You're hallucinating. You're losing it._

A warm hand touched his painful hip, and a tingling heat began to radiate through his body, he daren't admit where the heat was concentrating itself. Imagination. His imagination must be running away with him. So long without a decent sleep could do strange things to a person. Yes, he was hallucinating. He had to be. There was simply no way... It was his own hand he could feel on his hip, it must be. He opened his eyes again to confirm his suspicions. Dean could _feel_ Castiel's presence; he _knew_ he was there. He had always known when Castiel was near him. Even when he wasn't. Dean could _feel _Castiel watching over him. He felt safe and protected when his Angel was around.

A hand cupped Dean's hip gently, and it gradually smoothed round the small of his back.

Dean's breath caught in his throat, and he laid his hand on the other man's hand as if to check if he was corporeal. At the touch, both men froze and finally, blue met green and they looked at one another. Dean pressed his hand down on the hand on his hip, holding him still. "Cas?" His voice sounded alien. The blue orbs pierced in to his own as Dean reached out and touched Castiel's tattered Wings. The Angel flinched away in pain – in embarrassment – then he relaxed in to Dean's touch. The Wings felt like they were made of cashmere and silk, and Heaven itself, and Dean suddenly felt humbled at the realization of exactly what it was he was doing. He remembered their first encounter, when Castiel had shown his Wings, maybe in an act of dominance, in threat. But Castiel clearly hadn't shown him the full extent of their glory. And Dean had merely seen them, a shadow of them, and here he was _touching _them. His fingers crossed a sticky, warm substance. Blood. Dean could sense, and almost see something else. The only way he could describe it was like a brilliant, pure light; he could see every color he knew yet at the same time they blended to make an incandescent white. It was leaking through invisible cracks in between the satin like Feathers. His Grace. Cas was bleeding his Grace.

Dean's hand stopped, and his eyes returned to Castiel's. All he could manage was a weak repetition of his Angel's name, the affectionate nickname he had given to him. Affectionate? The word ran through his mind as he raised his hand and touched Castiel's cheek. Dean had no idea what he was doing or why. He just knew he was happy to have Castiel with him, even a little _too_ happy in fact. Dean's eyebrows perked up, and he shifted uncomfortably. Unintentionally, he moved forward, closer to Castiel, close enough to feel the heat of his vessel's body. That heat and tingling didn't subside as Castiel moved Dean's hand from his face, Castiel looked afraid, much as he had done in the 'Den Of Inequity' Dean had dragged him to before their meeting with Raphael.

Now with both hands in contact, Dean followed his instincts and pulled Castiel closer to him.

Castiel did nothing to protest or pull away. His right hand was still on Dean's left hip, and as his vessel and his being filled with a strange electricity, he gripped tighter on to Dean's hip. He wanted to speak to Dean, to ask what was happening, what that strange stirring in his vessel's underwear was all about. He didn't understand why he _wanted_ Dean to be this close to him. He had always been very protective of Dean, very tuned in to him, When Dean felt pain, Castiel knew it, when he felt fear, happiness, excitement, sadness even desire, Castiel knew. Castiel often visited Dean, unbeknownst to Dean. Often when the Hunter was sleeping; he didn't know why, but he just _needed_ to be near Dean sometimes, especially when times were bad. Being near Dean offered him a kind of solace in the middle of an otherwise chaotic existence. He would get distracted and agitated if he spent too much time away from Dean. Simply watching the young man sleep would suffice. He often longed to touch him, to feel the soft, warm skin of Dean's handsome face against his vessel's hand, and he longed to reach out and touch Dean with his Grace, wrap him in it. Nothing had every felt more natural and right to Castiel as him and Dean together in that very moment. His hands now intertwined with Dean's, his breathing sharp and fast, his vessel's heart making itself known to Castiel for the first time, thundering in his chest, fluttering every few moments. His hips rotated and his pelvis pushed in to Dean's as Dean pulled him closer again. Castiel had been staring down in wonder at his and Dean's mushed hands, and he finally plucked up the courage to look nervously at Dean. Dean's emerald eyes looked up in to Castiel's, and he unknitted the fingers of his right hand from Castiel's left hand. The free hand now snaked up Castiel's arm and made its way to his ebony locks.

To Dean, Castiel's hair held the same delicate quality as his Wings, which were now draping lazily across the floor behind him, forgotten. That hair was still strong enough for Dean to grab a handful of, and he pulled Castiel's face closer to his own. The heat from Castiel's breath thrilled Dean, and he left his lips tingle. He bit his lips, his eyes instinctively dropped to Castiel's lips, and thrust his hips forward, away from the sink and in to Castiel, pushing the Angel back.

Castiel found his eyes dropping to Dean's lips, and their hands clenched together harder. A strange sound, somewhere between a purr and a hum escaped Castiel's lips, earning a lop sided smile from Dean. Cas didn't quite understand what was happening, what he was alloWing to happen. What he was alloWing Dean Winchester to do to him. He _wanted _this, he knew that much. He understood lust well enough, but he didn't understand the thundering in his vessel's chest, and the intense, electric, tingling heat that engulfed his vessel's body, a heat that seemed to center in the crotch, and was getting more intense with the new action of Dean's hip rubbing against it. Castiel glanced down and almost choked at the realization that it wasn't Dean's hip bone he felt rubbing against his own – his vessel's own – erogenous zone. Dean's soft lips made contact with Castiel's neck, and the strange purr-hum announced itself again.

Dean noted that Cas' Wings appeared to be emanating a rich golden glow, despite the Feathers still having the dull, charcoal like tone. Dean's hand returned to those precious Wings, and the ecstatic feeling he received sent Dean stumbling backwards.

The hammering masked the sound of Dean's fall and the flutter of Castiel's Wings.

Dean felt his heart sink.

Bobby yelled Dean's name in his growly, angry tone. "What the Hell is going on in there?" Flustered, Dean turned the shower on and set it to cool. His heart was still galloping in his chest, and his entire frame was trembling. Not to mention another problem he needed to rid of. "Can't a man have a shower in peace?" Dean's voice came out far more high pitched and shaky than he intended it to. He cleared his throat.

"It sounds like you're have a goddam rave in there."

"I tripped," He lied, his voice levelling out. He breathed a sigh of relief as the fall back to reality sorted out the problem in Dean's pants. He peeled out of his sticky clothes and climbed under the shower. The cool water felt refreshing against his prickling, electrified skin. _Holy crap, what the actual FUCK just happened?_ As his mind raced, he just stood under the water trying to fathom some manner of sense from what had just occurred between himself and his Angel.

**Okay so torn now, whether to keep it as a oneshot or draaaaaag it out a little more? Either way I hope any readers have enjoyed and hopefully agree with my idea of what SHOULD have been =p x x**


	5. Chapter 5

_**To explain my random capital letters, I have this thing that things to do with the Angels should have a capital letter, such as Fallen, Wings, Angel etc. As God Himself is referred to as "He" Just a little note ^-^**_

_**Also - Haha I doooo have more, but it's not quite fully... Ermmmm... Germinated? Haha yet! =p Thank you sooooooo much for the reviews! Means a lot! =D If you reviewers have any work of your own, let me know and I will return the favor [=**_

**~Lintu x x**

Dean had prayed for Castiel's return, literally screamed for it on occasion; he'd take a drive out in his Baby, claiming he needed to clear his head, and he'd pull over on the side of a quiet road to scream abuse and shake his fists at the Heavens, and call Cas' name until his throat was raw. Hell he'd even found himself sobbing for him; not Cas, come on. His family, his friends, all bar Bobby and Sam had been taken from him. Not Cas as well. Sure, he was pissed at the Angel, for – just like his little brother with drinking the demon blood, I mean anyone with a lick of sense could see _that _was headed in a bad direction – he had ignored Dean's pleas to walk away; Deals with Demons _never_ ended pretty. And seeing him collapsed against that door frame, as good as disintegrating before his eyes, Dean knew it then. He knew deep down that he was going to lose his Angel. He'd been in something resembling denial about how he felt about his feelings; Dean Winchester doesn't _feel _not in _that_ way. He has to keep up the belligerent act, nothing fazes him, nothing can get to him, short of his brother, and Bobby, nothing and no _one_ could have any sort of profound effect on him. And there it was. _"We share a more profound bond."_ He'd known it all along. Ever since their first meeting, the barn doors blowing open and the Heavenly being strolling in, his steely gaze upon his human Charge, taking in every detail of the man before him, the man he had raised from the depths of Hell itself. _"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."_ Castiel had not understood the suspicion and hostility Dean had regarded him with; his stance rigid, ready to attack or flee, his handsome face frozen in to a grimace of contempt. After a brief introduction which had landed Castiel with a blade in his chest – Dean felt a pang of guilt remembering his actions towards the man he now struggled to deny loved – Dean had noted a definite look of misunderstanding and, he was certain, pain in Castiel's eyes as he removed the blade. The way that Castiel looked at Dean had for the most part remained the same; fascination and adoration, and above all pure _loyalty._

Stood in the shower at that very moment, Dean figured out the reason behind the confusion he always read in Castiel's eyes and actions around him. It was _need. _Castiel _needed _Dean, and he didn't understand the emotion. Little did Dean know that Castiel would visit him unseen, watching over him on the cases they didn't involve the Angel in, or simply going about his daily business on the rare days Dean Winchester got to act like something resembling a normal human being. Maybe that would freak Dean out. Maybe it would comfort him.

Dean closed his eyes and remembered Castiel standing close to him, for the first time showing raw passion and emotion. Dean could remember his own heart pounding, his skin alive with electricity, and he had pushed his feelings back, because Dean Winchester didn't have feelings; not those types of feelings, not for anyone, Angel or human. He just didn't. And least of all for his own Guardian Angel, in the vessel of some poor devout married man from Illinois.

"_I've killed two Angels this week," _Cas had growled at him, conflicting emotions raging in those cosmic eyes, _"My brothers," _That had hit the right nerve with Dean, the very thought of killing his own baby brother, his Sammy had brought a burning lump to his throat, _"I'm Hunted; I've Rebelled, and I did it, _all _of it, for _you." Castiel had only looked at Dean in the eyes with that same resentment once again, and that was in that dingy alley, after Dean had made the decision to say yes to Michael, but Castiel had gotten to him first, and he had beaten the everholy crap out of Dean. Dean hadn't even tried to fight back. He had wanted to die, and he had thought what better way to die than at the hands of his Fallen Angel, the last thing he would have seen would have been those freakin eyes. Deep down, even back then he knew Castiel had him totally defenceless. One piercing look from those baby blues and Dean would be putty in his hands. Only now did he understand that conflicted look Cas always gave him. Only now did Dean know why he was always so awkwardly jokey, and over manly around Cas. He would never admit it out loud, because no, that would mean it was _real._ That would mean he would have to _deal _with it. And Dean didn't _deal _with anything. It just wasn't who he is. Never has been, never will be. Dean Winchester takes everything in his stride, nothing affects him, no one affects him. That way it was easy, Dean had learned this young. Bottle it up, lock it away and lose the key. If it starts to surface, drink, go out and get in to a death match with some supernatural nasty that needed a good ganking. Whatever you do, don't open up, don't let anyone in, coz that's how you end up getting hurt. And not the battered-halfway-to-death way Dean was used to, he could deal with that, rubbing alcohol, maybe a few home made stitches, a bandage and let time do its job. That was the easy version of getting hurt. What really, truly scared Dean was his own feelings. Demons could beat him six ways from Sunday, but people could do far worse; they could get under your skin and to that thumping thing in your chest. And people had a funny way of ripping that thing and shitting on it, and that was far harder to heal than any injury any spook could inflict upon Dean. He had felt that, and dammit he still did losing Lisa and Ben. And then he had lost Cas. His heart just about tore itself out of his own chest watching him go. And that was when Dean had given up. What the fuck was the point? He had let Cas in, he knew he had; he couldn't explain exactly when or _why, _but he had. That damn Angel, and his damn power over Dean. It was the eyes, Dean decided. It had to be. Nothing on Earth could be that color, that perfect electric sapphire blue. Maybe the little confused head tilt Cas used when Dean threw some pop culture reference in his direction; that was so Cas, and it was so freakin adorable...

_No, Dean. Snap out of it. You're drunk. Crazy. Get some sleep._


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, so to start with, Dean had been strangely happy. Bobby and Sam had almost tried to exorcize him. But ten days was a long time for the post almost-something-but-not-quite cooling down period. It was beginning to grate on Dean's nerves, and he knew he was taking it out on Sammy. He didn't mean to. Somehow, everything was Sammy's fault; the sky was blue because Sam was an annoying oversized dweeb. Dean was shouting and snapping at Sam for everything.

Sam watched his brother sitting at the table in yet another crappy motel room they were renting whilst they were tracking down a possible angry spirit, possible demon in Aspen, Colorado. He was picking furiously at a loose thread on the knee of his tattered jeans, and rocking the chair back and forth, the feet making an irritating rhythm on the , but Sam daren't bitch at him about it. He'd thought Dean had been getting better; there had been a week or so where he had been on cloud nine. Drugs? 'Roids? Sam shook his head at the thought. Dean was built enough – Sam himself was built like a brick shit house, and his brother wasn't as gargantuan as him, but he wasn't Trevor Reznikesque – and sure, Dean was more than fond of a bit of the hard stuff, but not _that _hard. Top shelf was the farthest he would go. Granted he might over do it on the liquor, he and Sam had sung their way home many a time, but neither of them had ever been stupid enough to dabble in anything that had to be smoked, snorted, popped, injected or otherwise. Sam's little addiction to demon blood aside. Neither of them needed it to be honest. With the things they'd seen in their lives, combined with the fear of something choosing to attack whilst they were under the influence of something that was making them ask a lamp post for the time or a bowl of fruit talk to them, would set them up for a bad trip.

Sam felt like giving Dean a piece of his mind sometimes; a piece of his _fist _even. He knew it would get him nowhere. _Might make ya feel a lil' better, Sammy boy. A slug in the jaw's known to do good to them what needs it. _He smiled to himself, pulled out of his thoughts and back to a more stern expression by his older brother moseying over to his bed, kicking off his boots and swinging his legs heavily – and anything but gracefully – on to the bed, grunting with the effort. Sam checked his watch. "Five thirty, Dean? Really?" In hindsight, it was thinking about getting dark outside, the unbroken cloud cover dipping in to a dark grey tone, and looking decidedly pregnant with rain. Sam grimaced, but still fancied a cruise.

Dean muttered something about getting old and waved a hand absent mindedly at Sam in response to the request to borrow the car.

The sun tried in vain now and again to peek through the clouds, and each time it did, Sam would blink his eyes instinctively, flapping for the sun visor, but it did little but obscure his view of the road. He sat up more, and achieved cutting out half the road ahead, but at the same time blocking out the rays of sun, so it would have to do.

Sam loved driving the Impala. He'd never admit it to his brother, whom he liked to tease about how much he loved his car, but if he were being honest, there was a car, then there was a _car. _And there was no doubting that the '67 Chevvy Impala was a _car._ Driving it was like an all new - and decidedly legal - state of high. The sound she made and the sheer power was enough to make any normal day to day driver as the proud owner of an every day Ford go weak at the knees.

The Impala had driven Sam and Dean to Jericho, California to the Woman In White; their very first case back together as a team, after Sam had left the family business in favor of college, a career and the hope of a normal life. So much for that idea. She had taken the brothers all across America since then, and she'd been flattened out many a time, even by Dean himself. The car had been through a lot with the brothers, and it had been their Father's before then. Sam felt a pang in his heart thinking about his Father. The reason Sam and Dean had wound up in this line of work. If he hadn't have been killed by the Yellow Eyed demon Azazel back in '73, Mary wouldn't have made the deal. Yellow Eyes wouldn't have come back ten years later in the Fall of '83, in to Sam's nursery, taken Mary's life and John's sanity along with it.

John Winchester became obsessed by hunting down the demon that had killed his wife. It had taken precedence over everything, even his sons. Sam had almost hated him for that. Dean had brought him up, acting as Mother and Father to Sammy, and he could guess now what that had been like for Dean. Dean had never had the chance to do what he wanted, because he had to look after Sam, it was his _duty _to protect his little brother and keep him trained up in case of an attack. They had been brought up like soldiers, barely allowed a childhood, and Sam felt bitter towards their Father for that. But the more he thought, the more he came to realize it wasn't really his Father's fault. John Winchester had fallen in love. Just as Sam had with Jess. And what had he done after her death, but vow vengeance on the piece of crap that had killed her? Just as Dean had with... Sam blinked. It was dark. He really ought to turn the car around and head motelwards. Dean would be worried. Lisa maybe? Sure, he'd loved Lisa. And Ben. Sam had to admit, Lisa Braeden was a hottie. He smirked slightly, but his head was still spinning. Dean Winchester had fallen in love. He knew he'd seen that look in his eyes. The same look that Jessica had in her eyes when she looked at Sam. The last time anyone had looked at Sam in that way. But he'd seen that look in Dean's eyes, a lot. But not for these past few months. Nothing but that far away pained look. He couldn't be sure, but Sam thought he knew that look. _Not Dean... Surely?_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Okay, so a little reference to a beach near my home [= Just a short one about our Angel's feelings about his reintroduction with Dean. Writer's block; you have been warned!**_

Castiel had spent a lot of time over the last ten days up in Heaven, hidden away in any random person's little corner, vanishing back down to Earth at the slight hint of a nearby Angel. It was a Thursday that he chose sit on the cliffs of Amroth beach to watch the permanently dank looking water thrash violently against the rocks that were scattered across, diving it from Telpyn beach. Wales was almost like stepping back a century or two, but it held some of his Father's better work which hadn't been ruined by mankind's insatiable need to destroy everything they came across.

He pondered how he had come back. Again. The last time he had saved the world, but this time he had just about ended it. He knew it wouldn't be long before he was found again. All the time he was gone, Castiel had been reaching out to Dean. He had called him, screamed his name, over and over, sobbed and choked through his own blood and Grace, blood and Grace that his own brothers and sisters had been slashing and slicing from him. The harder he thought, the more it hurt. Castiel could remember every last detail of his time at the hands of his family, the hateful utterings and agonizing torment from his siblings of literally _forever,_ but none of it pained him more than the knowledge that he had ruined the trust between himself and Dean. The last thing he had fully registered as Cas was the hope draining from Dean's eyes, the pain at the loss of yet another friend, his Angel, and worst of all, the betrayal. He had done the two worst things anyone could do to Dean; he had betrayed his trust and hurt his brother. He dropped his head on to his fists as the very thought of it, wishing beyond anything that he could take it all back. He had hurt and betrayed the man he... The man he what?

Castiel found himself thinking about Dean against, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his trench coat – a trait he had picked up from watching Dean scuff about in Bobby's yard in between hunts, clearly unsure of what to do with himself when he wasn't on the road and killing things – walking down a dusty track somewhere in Arizona. He thought back to his encounter with Dean. A punch, or even a hug followed by a punch, he had expected. Then some more than harsh words, strung together with profanities that would make a cheap slasher horror movie proud. Heck, even total ignorance he would have understood, but _that?_ What had it been? That embrace, the frantic breathing, Dean literally holding on to him, his heart hammering in his chest, and Castiel could _feel _the electricity coming off him. The way he had _wanted _it. He had _wanted _Dean to be that close to him, to pull him closer still, and he couldn't forget the way their fingers had locked together, so perfectly, the way their movements had been in time, Cas physically shuddered just thinking about it. And it was then that it all fell in to place for him. Like putting together the pieces of a puzzle. He might have been an Angel of the Lord, but he knew enough to know what it was he was feeling.

All those years, Castiel had battled with his longing to be around his Charge. If only to watch him slouching on the sofa, with his trousers undone and one hand tucked in to the top of his boxers, the other restlessly pressing buttons on the television remote, or clutching a bottle of beer like it held the sustenance of life itself. Or to watch Dean sleep. It fascinated him, the way Dean's entire body would be totally relaxed and at rest. Even his mind would be mostly settled. Dean often slept on his back, one knee cocked and overhanging the side of the bed, and an arm draped loosely over his eyes, and other times he would sprawl across the bed on his front one arm stuffed under the pillow. He would rarely have the covers pulled all the way up, and favored sleeping in his boxers and a loose tee. Dean was a sleep talker, and more times than not, it was incomprehensible mutterings, but sometimes he would speak as clear as day. Castiel knew he had heard his own name mentioned, but had never thought anything of it. As a frequent subject in Dean's life, he was unsurprised by his presence in Dean's subconscious.

Occasionally, Dean would sleep in just his boxers, and Castiel found himself admiring the raises and dips of the smooth skin on Dean's front, back and arms. He had thought he was gaping in awe at the creation of which his Father was most proud. Back then, Castiel didn't register nor understand the stirring in his loins. Back then, Castiel could fight the urges to curl up next to his human and lay a protective arm over him. He wasn't sure that now he could manage such restraint. Now, with his shredded Wings trailing along the floor behind him, his hair ruffled by his fingers, and his five o clock shadow more like a half past eleven shadow, Castiel didn't think he could be near Dean Winchester again without losing control. He felt the raw human instinct of lust gnawing away at him.


	8. Chapter 8

After some light refreshments – in the shape of a bacon cheese burger, fries and three bottles of beer – Dean sprawled across the double bed on his back, eyes closed. It felt good to be back at Bobby's again. Finally, on day thirteen, Dean had decided that it had all been some fucked up kind of waking dream, and resigned to the fact that Cas was still dead. Or whatever he was. He let out a weary sigh. He could deal. He had to. He couldn't let himself believe the other night had been anything else. Cas wasn't coming back. He would never see him again. He would never stand that close to him again, be able to reach out and touch him, touch those Wings, and he'd never be able to tell him how he felt.

His hair was still wet from another shower, he could feel the now cold water trickling down his neck. It was making the hairs raise on the back of his neck and goose pimples spread. And his arms. It sent a cold gust of air over him and made a soft fluttering noise – a noise which his heart seemed to become perfectly in time with. Now he was making it up. He knew those prickles and that fluttering. In one quick move, Dean was on his feet.

Castiel didn't so much as flinch. In fact, Castiel was perfectly motionless. Even his eyes were fixed, staring at the wall. _No. I'm seeing things. Again. It's part of it, the whole going crazy thing. Is he shaking? _He definitely was.

Long moments passed whilst both men stood still, frozen to their respective place. In an instant, they both turned to one another and said each other's names in perfect unison.

Dean chuckled and rocked back on his heels. "Awkward..."

They were somehow mere inches apart, but neither dared make any sort of move, neither to close to the gap or widen it further. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe the apology for his inappropriate behavior during their last encounter would be a bit less painful and damaging to his manliness if he didn't have to make eye contact with the Angel before him. "Listen, Cas... The other night..." _What, exactly Dean? I didn't mean to get a raging lob on whilst nibbling on your neck; that's just the way I greet Angels who return from the dead. Fuck, fuck... Say something. Anything._

"You made a mistake?" The honey-gravel tone made Dean's body perk up in ways he really didn't need it to at that very moment in time. Dean actually heard the pain in Cas' voice, and he couldn't help but look up in to his cerulean gaze. Dean opened his mouth, paused then closed it again.

Castiel studied Dean's face, searching for an answer. All he could read was total despair and confusion. Denial perhaps?

Dean sighed loudly and looked to the floor. His eyes caught sight of Castiel's damaged Wings, and again, he became mesmerized. He itched to touch them again, to run his fingers through those Feathers. It was like a drug. _Cas _was like a drug. And all of a sudden, Dean wanted his Angel close to him again. He wanted their bodies touching, his fingers coaxing purr-hums from the Angel as he smoothed those Wings.

Castiel was so close, his eyes searing in to Dean's, his head tilted in his signature Cas-is-confused way, his hair tousled and wild, parts falling in to his face, and the rough stubble adoring his face, and by fuck if he didn't look damn sexy. Dean closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. His skin prickled and burned. Hot breath sent a new set of goose pimples down Dean's spine. He didn't move. He didn't have to. Cas was right there. So close, Dean could feel his body heat. Then Dean could feel his body against his own. His breathing shallowed as he felt his blood rushing South. _No, Dean, come on. He's a fucking Angel. And not like Anna; at least she was female. With a female name in a female vessel. Cas is a _dude_. _A trembling hand closed down on the hand shaped scar on his arm, and Cas breathed Dean's name in to his ear, and he asked him what was wrong. Dean tried to protest and push the Angel away from him, but he succeeded only in grasping hold of the trench coat and pulling him closer to him. Dean bit his lip and pushed the trench coat from Cas' back, then the suit jacket, then slid his hand gently over Castiel's body, coming to rest on his hip. He squeezed on to that hip and pulled it against his own. Dean had certainly had a lot of experience in the bedroom, but never with another man, and he couldn't deny, never with such raw need and desire. Three and a half years. Castiel hadn't known or understood, but Dean had known very well what his feelings for Cashad been. He had denied it, and covered it up, acting probably a bit too much like a jerk around him. Dean opened his eyes to find himself face to face with his Angel. The intensity in Castiel's eyes was cosmic. Suddenly, Dean realized what that gaze had meant, he had dismissed what he had read from it. This made his breath catch in his throat. The Angel had at least had an idea what he felt for his Charge. The prolonged stares, the invasion of his personal space on a regular basis. He never did it to Sam or Bobby, only to Dean.

There was a reason he had put off that hooker. Castiel didn't want to give himself to anyone. Cas relished the feeling of Dean's hand running over his vessel's body, and the heat and the tingling. He pushed Dean against the wall, taking both of them by surprise, and Dean's hands clasped at his waist. "Cas," Dean's head hit the wall and he closed his eyes again. Castiel hesitated, unsure of how to follow this through, but Dean took charge, and pulled him in to their first kiss. To begin with, their lips danced against one another, a tender, nervous display, then Dean gently ran his teeth across Castiel's lips. Castiel grabbed Dean's wrists and slammed them in to the wall either side of his head, plaster raining down on both of them. After an initial jolt of shock, Dean glanced at each of his hands, then he grinned at Castiel. The next kiss was rampant, and Dean couldn't help the little smile that joined it – _I guess this is what he learned from the Pizza Man –_ and hands from both parties roamed unexplored and previously forbidden territories. Castiel's hand crossed Dean's pelvis and rested right next to the swelling in his pants, Dean couldn't stop the moan of Cas' name escaping his lips.

There was no denying it now; three years of ignoring their urges, of denial, and who gave a fuck if that loud crack was the sound of the bed breaking as Cas threw him down on to it, following closely after, and so what if Bobby and Sam could hear them from downstairs, because fuck it. Cas was alive, by some freak act of God, or maybe he'd never died in the first place, and he was with Dean, and _that _was all that mattered.

Somehow they were wearing next to nothing, and their bodies moved together in harmony and the last thing Dean could remember was Cas' voice growling his name in to his ear, and wondering where the actual _fuck _Cas had picked these moves up from as he felt himself losing control, eyes rolling back in his head in pure ecstasy.

_**I prefer this version of Cas' return =p I must apologize for my writer's block, and I must apologize for the rushedness, but I shall be computerless again tomorrow, and back to the world of pen and paper ]= Reviews muchly appreciated, and all reviewers shall receive returned reviews on any of their work once I have computerified again =D Since it's Easter I wish everyone full scale chocolate Dean/Cas/Sam zzz depending on your own taste ^-^ Love**_

_**~Lintu x x**_


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